The Land of Make Believe
by Almyra
Summary: AU. Years after a fatal accident devastated their family, Peter, Susan, and Edmund face gathering darkness once more. An unexpected arrival pulls them back into a world of magic and madness, and they must find their way Home before everything is lost.
1. Prologue: The Similitude of a Dream

**Disclaimer:** I'll do this once and declare it sufficient unto the story as a whole. I don't own or make any money off of this obsession of mine, which is otherwise known as Narnia fanfiction. Believe me, if I did…you'd never be the first to know. Heh.

**AN: **Just to clarify, this Alternate Universe story explores what might have become of Peter and Edmund had they survived the train crash (or not been there in the first place, which is how I've approached it) and grown up (again), taken jobs, married, and had children. It follows my story _Song of the Phoenix_, and while it's not absolutely necessary to read that one first, it does establish some of the emotions and relationships found herein, as well as explain how Peter and Edmund 'survived' the train crash at the end of _The Last Battle_.

* * *

_As I walk'd through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where was a Denn; And I laid me down in that place to sleep: And as I slept I dreamed a Dream…  
+ The Pilgrims Progress_ by John Bunyan 

_They say there's a place, where dreams have all gone.  
They never said where, but I think I know.  
It's miles through the night, just over the dawn,  
on the road that will take me home._

_Love waits for me round the bend,  
Leads me endlessly on.  
Surely sorrows shall find their end,  
and all our troubles will be gone.  
And I'll know what I've lost, and all that I've won,  
when the road finally takes me home.  
+ Going Home_, Mary Fahl, _Gods and Generals_

**The Land of Make Believe**

_Prologue: The Similitude of a Dream _

Shadows dance. 

Fire and ice.

A swirl of light, stunning in its sudden appearance and scorching in its brilliance.

An indrawn breath, hoarse, rattling, inadequate.

One constant: a burning, searing ache, so close to the fine line between bone-chilling and scalding there is no way to tell the difference.

Not that it matters. He knows he is near the edge. Had he made it?

A moan escapes cracked lips, and in spite of his torments, he stirs, trembling in every limb, heady sweat clinging to feverish skin.

Whirling, dizzying nausea. _Oh, Aslan…_

He collapses, lies panting, and tries once more to rouse his rebellious, traitorous body.

Ah, but his will is weakening – no! A mission. He has a message to impart. He must not fail.

The blackness before his eyes shivers and grays. Fades.

Agony is patient. It waits. There is no hurry.

There is hurry for him. Immediate urgency.

A mission…

His dry, bleeding lips part, and it costs his all to whisper a title – a name.

A message…

_"High King…King Peter…"_

Must not fail.

Darkness.


	2. Time Waits For No One

**I**. **Time Waits For No One**

"Peter!" Meg Pevensie shouted up the stairs, affectionate annoyance on her pretty face, "We're going to be late!"

No reply came down to her, although she could hear the murmur of her husband's voice coming from the nearest bedroom on the left. She offered a small smile to the neighbor girl they had hired to stay with the children and stealthily climbed the stairs, taking care her high heeled pumps made no noise on the gleaming wooden steps. The door to her daughter's room was halfway open, and warm, golden light spilled out into the hall from her little bedside lamp. Meg tip-toed closer and peered inside.

Her oldest child, Lucy, sat tucked securely in several fluffy blankets, her brown eyes wide and fascinated, clearly seeing something not of this world unfolding before her. Beside the bed, her father was in the midst of one of his stories, the cadence rising and falling, his hands spinning the tale. He was nearly falling out of the little chair that was five sizes too small for him; he was perched so precariously on the edge of his seat. Meg smiled and settled in to listen. Late or not, something like this was too important to interrupt.

"…and there he was, sword in hand, waiting for King Miraz to face him in the lists. The High King was nervous, to be sure, for he hadn't fought a duel like that for a very long time. He didn't want to fail Prince Caspian by losing, and he didn't really want to die. But he knew it was his duty to give it his very best, and he knew the Great Lion was close by, with everything well in hand. So, even though he was indeed just a little bit afraid, he knew that whatever happened, all he had to do was fight as well as he could. Aslan would take care of the rest."

"What happened next?" Lucy whispered, enraptured.

Peter turned slightly, smiling, and Meg realized he had known she was there all along. "For that you'll have to wait until tomorrow, princess," he said, leaning over and kissing her forehead, silencing her protestations with a look. "None of that, now," he said sternly, settling her back and bringing the blankets right up to her chin. "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite."

Lucy grinned and gave the traditional response. "And if they do, take a shoe, and hit them 'til they're black and blue!" she crowed, and Peter kissed her again.

"I love you, Lucy," he said, and his daughter snuggled down into her nest, contentment in her face.

"Love you, too, Daddy," she replied, yawning in spite of herself. Peter chuckled and turned off her lamp. He slipped out into the hallway and left the door just a bit ajar, moving to the hall table to switch on the lamp they usually left burning as a night-light, only to find that Meg had beaten him to it.

She smiled at him, her brown eyes twinkling. "Good job, King Peter," she said and stretched up to give him a kiss.

He leaned into it with just a touch more passion than expected, and she broke off with a laugh. "Come on now," she said, straightening his bow-tie, "You don't want to miss the show, do you?"

Peter grinned and wrapped her in his arms, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Who says we would?"

Meg laughed again and gently steered him to the stairs, brushing a bit of fuzz off of his jacket shoulder. "Well, although I certainly wouldn't mind, I think Edmund would be rather put-out if we didn't make it."

"He'd get over it," her husband said, waving a hand carelessly, and Meg 'tsked' as he took her wrap from the hall closet and placed it around her shoulders.

While Peter took care of his own coat and made sure his keys were in order, she turned to the neighbor girl, who was standing in the living room doorway, trying to appear as though she wasn't listening. "It may be rather late before we get back, Laura," Meg said, pulling on her gloves. "The boys are already sleeping, and Lucy is well on her way. I've left the phone number and the name of the club where we're going in the kitchen – it's called the Romper Room." Behind her, she heard a soft snort from Peter, but she ignored him.

Laura nodded, and although she was quite capable and had stayed with the children several times before, Meg still had to squash the sibilant voice inside telling her she should probably stay home herself just in case. Happened every time. "The number for Dr. Cardew is there also. I'm sure everything will be all right, but you know the drill."

"I'll take care of things, Mrs. Pevensie," Laura replied, smiling, "You go enjoy yourself and don't worry."

Meg smiled in response, although it was a tad forced, and took the arm her husband held out for her. "Good night," she said, and they swept out the door.

The night was clear and cold, with the early fall breeze carrying just a hint of winter's chill, and Meg shivered beneath her wrap. Fortunately, it was a short walk to the car, and Peter handed her in with all the gallantry of a knight with his lady. He got in the driver's side and started the engine, and they were off.

They rode for awhile in silence, until finally Meg reached over and placed her hand on Peter's knee. "Is everything all right?" she asked, "You seem a little tense."

Her husband said nothing for a moment, his eyes roving absently over the traffic and the road signs, and she let him think, knowing the words would come out of their own volition when he was ready. "Oh," he said finally, "It's nothing much. Just this really isn't the thing for me."

"What, going on a date with your wife?" she asked, teasing, and she was glad to see an answering smile tug at his lips.

"No, goose," he said, casting her a fond glance, "The whole club atmosphere – smoke, loud music, sodding drunks. I mean, really, the Romper Room? Couldn't Ed have at least picked someplace with a little more class?"

Meg resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So that was it. "Ed had no choice in the matter, and you know it," she said, "He's not the one in charge."

"Maybe he should be." Peter muttered, and his wife made an irritated sound. "Well!" he went on, "Playing in a second rate dance band isn't exactly where we all thought Ed would wind up. A ruddy waste of talent and intelligence, if you ask me! I've seen what Edmund can do – who he can _be_, and I'll tell you, a _jazz_ musician falls extremely short of the mark!"

She humphed. "Now you sound like your sister," she said, and her husband clenched his jaw. "Peter, you know he enjoys what he does, and the Frontmen are hardly second rate. He's almost twenty-seven, plenty old enough to know what he's doing. What's the real issue here? Why must you be so hard on him?"

This remark seemed to take the wind out of Peter's sails, and he slumped just the tiniest bit. By the flickering light of the street lamps, she saw regret mixed with anger descend upon his face, an expression she disliked, for it made her feel helpless and small in the face of an ancient pain. "I try not to be hard on him," he nearly whispered, "and if it were just Edmund, it would probably be different. But he has a family to look after, Meg," his voice rose, "A wife and a child."

"He does look after them, Peter," Meg replied softly. "He does his very best. And while I know it 'really isn't the thing' for you, he's chosen his path. I know, too, that Edmund appreciates you being there when he plays."

The only sound came from the steady whir of the tires on the road and the rumbling purr of the engine, and then Peter straightened. "I'll be there," he said, and there was no mistaking the deadly conviction in his voice. "I will most certainly always be there."

Meg squeezed his knee encouragingly and looked out the windshield to see the lights of London growing ever closer and brighter by the mile.


	3. Main Squeeze

**AN:** I know, _The Girl from Ipanema_ won't actually be written for another three or four years, but it's one of those I have a confused love-hate relationship with, so it's here. (grin)**  
**

* * *

**2. Main Squeeze**

A muffled squeal. "Oh wow. _Wow_. Sarah, you were right. He _is_ handsome!"

Giggling. "Didn't I tell you? Hey?"

More giggling. "You sure were right. I won't ever doubt you again."

"They say he's the best – could have made it into the Royal Academy."

Awed exclamation. "Why didn't he?"

"I've heard," slight pause, and then a hoarse whisper, "that there was some great misfortune in his family. Someone died, I think, and he just couldn't go on."

Dramatic gasp. "Oh! Darkly handsome _and_ tragic! I don't know if I can _stand_ it!"

Sitting a few tables away, Maureen Pevensie fought the urge to start giggling herself, although she wasn't sure if _she_ could stand hearing the two waitresses gushing much longer. Especially since the person they were discussing with such heated fervor happened to be her husband. She wound her fingers around the stem of her wineglass and grinned, thinking of what Edmund would do if he knew what the two silly girls were saying. He would smile, in that slow, quiet way of his, showing teeth, and then turn to her with his deep brown eyes twinkling devilishly. "Let 'em talk," he would say – and had on many similar occasions. "You're the one I'm taking home with me tonight." One dark eyebrow would arch, and she would blush, and all thoughts of anything except later would vanish like smoke on the wind.

Maureen looked down towards the raised stage where Malcolm Lyttle's Frontmen were just finishing up their first set. She loved watching Edmund play and relished any opportunity to do so. They came around so rarely these days, what with the band first having to be appearing someplace close by and then her having to find someone to watch Ian and Moira so she could make it to the show. Fortunately, the Frontmen been at the Romper Room for several weeks, and the delight of having Edmund home on a regular basis was almost like a drug – heady, euphoric, and sure to bring her crashing down when he had to leave on tour again.

The young woman took a bracing sip of her wine and firmly put the eventual separation from her mind. She didn't want to spoil her evening and depress herself, so she leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and simply listened to the music. The rhythm set her to tapping her toes against the floor and her fingers against the tabletop, and the melody, bounced from musician to musician, twisted and turned every which way in clever improvisation, had her humming softly, if a bit brokenly, along.

The clear, piercing notes of Edmund's trumpet blazed through the darkness behind her closed lids, bringing a smile to her lips. She looked over to see him standing, playing his solo with his own eyes shut, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow, his long fingers working the valves with a swift dexterity that constantly amazed her. He rarely moved when taking his turns with the melody; while others bobbed with the music, flowing with the vibe of each virtuoso display, Edmund played straight-backed and tall, feet planted slightly apart. She'd heard his fellow band-members say it wasn't right he should play so well standing so still. When she'd repeated the remark and asked him why he was so motionless, he had scratched behind his ear thoughtfully and replied he didn't really know.

A pleasant baritone interrupted her thoughts. "Pardon me, ma'am. May we join you?"

Maureen jumped and nearly upset her glass and then glanced up to see Edmund's older brother, Peter, and his wife Meg waiting beside her table. "Oh, hello!" she said, standing and greeting them each with a hug. "I'm so glad to see you – of course, please, have a seat!"

Peter helped Meg into her chair and sat down himself, turning a bit so he had a clear view of the stage. "He looks good," he said after watching Edmund play for a few minutes. Although Maureen usually had a hard time reading his expression, she thought he appeared pleased. Good. She knew Peter's approval meant quite a lot to her husband, even though he would never admit it out loud.

"Did you have a pleasant trip?" she asked Meg, who gave Peter a quick, searching glance and then smiled.

"Yes," she replied, "Lots of traffic, as usual, but we managed. This is a nice place."

Maureen laughed. "Yes, for something named the Romper Room," she said, a remark which made Peter take on a rather superior air.

"See, love, I'm not the only one," he said, and Meg wrinkled her nose at him. "Although I will say," he continued, "I was expecting something with a nursery theme – the musicians in diapers, mashed carrots on the menu, and the cigarette girls offering warm milk in bottles. This isn't quite as bad as I'd feared."

Meg gaped at her husband, who winked at her rather cheekily and turned to the waitress standing quietly at the table. "Hot whiskey and soda for me," he said, "and my lady will have a gin and tonic."

Maureen watched with some amusement as the waitress, one of the girls dissecting Edmund earlier, made a series of notes on her tablet, paused, and then, her eyes glancing back to Peter, made several more. "Would you like anything to eat with that?" she asked, lingering rather noticeably on the word 'eat', and Peter, whose attention had returned to the stage, looked back up with an expression of weary patience.

"Not at this time, thank you," he replied firmly, very politely, but with slightly narrowed eyes. The girl took the hint and swished off to place the order, a sulky expression pasted on a rather pretty face that held too much makeup. Meg huffed a little under her breath.

"She should be at home in bed," she said, "Not propositioning gentlemen twice her age in front of their wives."

Her husband nodded a little absentmindedly, having gone back to watching his brother play. "They're just silly girls," Maureen said, "They were dishing on Ed just a bit ago."

"Silly is right," Meg replied severely, and then she settled back in her chair. "How is Ian?" she asked Maureen, "Has he gotten over that cold?"

Her sister-in-law's face brightened at the mention of her son, and the topic of conversation swiftly changed. The two women chatted amiably about their respective children, discussing their latest antics and escapades – most engendering laughter and affection and some prompting frustration.

When the waitress brought their drinks, she plopped them down on the table hard enough to make them splash and then took her leave. Peter frowned a bit and wiped up the excess with his soggy cocktail napkin. "Well, her attitude matches the establishment's childish name," he said.

Meg pursed her lips and took a sip of her drink, rolling the sharp flavor around on her tongue before swallowing. "Mmm," she said, "Just right. Need a bit of warmth on a night like this."

"Yes, it is supposed to turn even colder in the next couple of days, isn't it?" asked Maureen. "I'm going to have to pull out the children's winter clothes. They both have probably outgrown most of them."

Her sister-in-law murmured in agreement. "I know. It seems as though every few weeks I'm letting out hems and seams or making trips to church jumble sales. I think Will is going to be our resident giant with the way he shoots up."

Over on the raised stage, the Frontmen finished up their song. Edmund glanced up towards Maureen, and, grinning, she pointed rather unnecessarily to Peter and Meg. He nodded, dark eyes glinting in the bright stage lights. Leaning forward, he whispered something to Malcolm, the band leader, and apparently received a satisfactory answer, for he settled back with a sly smirk and reached down to switch from his trumpet to his cornet. He sketched them all a tiny salute with the instrument before settling the mouthpiece to his lips.

When the band burst forth in their next piece, Peter stirred a bit and groaned. "Little beast," he said, burying his nose in his glass.

Meg raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong, Peter?" she asked curiously, "Don't you like _The Girl from Ipanema_?"

Her husband hunched his shoulders and shuddered theatrically before replying. "No," he said, "I don't. He used to torment us with it when he was just learning – played it over and over again on the gramophone. It wasn't so bad at the beginning, but we all grew to hate it. I_still_ can't stand it. And he knows it, too – look at him, the git!"

Maureen did have to admit that Edmund wore a very smug expression as he played, and she knew he was putting a tad more volume into his part than the arrangement generally needed.

"Well, if that's the way he's going to be," Peter said, and Maureen found herself being drawn gently but inexorably from her seat, her hands clasped in her brother-in-law's larger ones. "I'm going to steal his wife for a dance."

Surprised, the young woman looked back at Meg and was given an encouraging smile and a wave of the hand. "Go on," Meg said, "I have two left feet anyway."

"She's far too modest," Peter whispered to Maureen as he escorted her down to the dance floor and swept her out into the midst of the other couples already there.

Maureen was tempted to raise a warning of her own ineptitude, never having been the sort of girl who delighted in parties and dances, but after a few moments, she realized that as long as she relaxed and let Peter actually lead, her feet followed. And Peter was indeed an excellent leader – his touch firm and unyielding, his cues unmistakable but not rough, and his pattern varied but not confusing. He maneuvered them as close to the bandstand as possible and then spun her through a dizzying series of flourishes that left her breathless.

When this effrontery was noted – and it was – they were treated to an especially loud and dazzling cornet solo. Maureen's ears rang, and laughing, she looked up at Peter, who was grinning broadly. "All right, that's enough," she managed, "I'm now deaf and I can hardly stand, so no more showing off."

"My apologies, lady Maureen," he responded with a chuckle, "I have used you most unconscionably. One more turn around the floor and then we'll return to our seats." Peter was as good as his word, and when she dropped back into the chair he held out for her, it was with a thankful sigh and a move for her water glass.

"What was that about?" Meg asked her husband as he seated himself.

"Just saying hello," he replied with an entirely innocent manner as he took a sip of his drink.

His wife did her best to look stern, but the amusement pulling at the corners of her mouth gave her away. "It looked like shameless male posturing to me," she said, "And at poor Maureen's expense!"

"I have already tendered my apologies for such rude behavior," he replied, looking over at his sister-in-law with his blue eyes twinkling.

Maureen nodded at him, seeing the family resemblance in his smile and yet marveling at the definite difference between him and Edmund. "Peter's the Viking of the family," her husband had said once, "The rest of us took after Mum and Dad – dark hair and all that, but Pete, he's a little bit of an anomaly." He'd snorted a bit at that remark. "Dad called him our throwback Dane."

The image of Peter in furs and a horned helmet came to mind before she could stop it, and both of her in-laws gave her strange look as she coughed into her wine in an attempt to rein in the giggles. "I didn't dance that badly, did I?" asked Peter in bewilderment, and she hastened to reassure him.

Several songs later, the band took an intermission, and Edmund placed his trumpet on its stand before dropping down off the stage and making his way up to their table. Peter stood and made as if to greet him, but the younger man stepped first to his wife and bent down, planting a passionate kiss on her lips that tasted wholly of moist, warm brass. Maureen made a startled noise, and, conscious of the amused watchers, she knew a rosy flush was creeping up her neck. "Eddie!" she hissed, breaking off the kiss and swatting him on the chest.

He crooked an eyebrow at her and then moved to his brother. "Good to see you, Pete," he said, and they clasped arms before leaning into a brief hug. "Meg," he greeted his sister-in-law with a light kiss to the cheek and then pulled up an adjacent chair.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, waving a hand towards the bandstand.

Peter grinned at him. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Edmund's eyes glittered, and he slouched languorously in his chair, putting one long leg out to the side. He leaned back and was about to respond when the smile suddenly left his face. Maureen saw him stiffen almost imperceptibly, and she followed his gaze across the room to another table and the beautiful, dark haired woman just being seated there.

"Uh oh," her husband said, "Don't look now, but we've got some unexpected company."

Peter had gone deathly still, and when he met his brother's eyes and read the message therein, he paled slightly.

"Susan's here."


	4. Revenant

_Then said Christian to the Man, What art thou? The Man answered, I am what I was not once.  
+ The Pilgrims Progress_ by John Bunyan

**3. Revenant**

Maureen shivered. Had the temperature dropped? She almost felt the need to rub her arms free of the goosepimples that had appeared with the clipped announcement of Susan's arrival. Her husband and Peter were facing one another grimly, looking as though they had just swallowed something horribly distasteful. Meg was frowning, her lips compressed into a thin line. Laughter from the other club patrons, alongside the clatter of cutlery, porcelain, and glass, fractured the sudden friable silence with sharp, staccato punches, glossing the atmosphere with a surreal patina.

"What is she doing here?" asked Edmund, low and annoyed.

"I really couldn't say," Peter replied softly. "Usually she avoids us like the plague."

Meg glanced at him sharply – a queer tone buried deeply in his voice had surfaced, just for a moment.

His younger brother apparently noticed the same thing, and his brown eyes narrowed. "Peter, you didn't…"

Peter held up his hands, palms out. "No, no – it wasn't me."

"Is poncy Blake with her?" Edmund asked snidely, "Or did she manage to shake him for an evening?"

The older man's glance flicked over to the opposite side of the room. "She's alone," he answered, rebuke lacing his tone, "and that was uncalled for, Ed."

"Her coming here was uncalled for," Edmund said. "What does she want?"

His brother shifted uncomfortably in his chair and shrugged. "Probably to lecture us both again on our poor…career choices," he said, "I don't know – I'm not a mind reader. She just might want to talk. We shouldn't shut her out – that doesn't do anyone any good."

Edmund snorted. "I don't want to see her, Pete. And as she generally doesn't want to see you _or_ me, we're in agreement on something, she and I. A rare thing, that, these days."

Maureen placed a hand on her husband's arm and felt it quivering with tension. She squeezed comfortingly, though to little effect.

Peter sighed wearily, his gaze moving to the table where his sister was seated. Susan was placing an order with the attentive waiter, but she appeared uncomfortable and troubled – her beautiful face was pale beneath its usual mask of expertly applied make-up – and she resolutely kept her eyes from straying to the other side of the room.

"Should we greet her?" Maureen asked uncertainly. "I mean, it seems obvious she knows we're here. Wouldn't it at least be polite to say hello?"

Meg drummed her fingers on the side of her gin and tonic and pursed her lips. "Let her come to us," she finally said, flatly. "If she has something to say, she'll say it. If not, no loss on our side."

Peter gave his wife a slightly perturbed look, but didn't argue, and Edmund relaxed somewhat, his hands uncurling from the unconscious fists he'd made and his body sinking deeper into the chair. He covered Maureen's hand with his own for a brief moment and pressed it gently in thanks.

"So," he began casually, again stretching a bit, a tight grin creeping over his face, "How's life amidst crackling parchment and mouldering myth, Pete?"

Appearing not to have heard, his brother cast one last glance at their sister, who was now sitting with her hands clasped tightly together on the tabletop, her dark eyes determinedly focused on them, and then turned back to Edmund. "Repay evil with good, right?" he said, refusing to be redirected. With something of a challenge sparking in his blue eyes, he pushed back from the table and rose to his feet.

"Things haven't changed, you know," Edmund replied tautly, "and pearls do not come cheap."

"I have no choice but to try," Peter said quietly, and Maureen's heart ached at the sorrow coloring his face and tone. Edmund rarely spoke of Susan, but she knew they had been extremely close once, and the break between them had wounded her husband far deeper than he ever cared to discuss or even admit. Unsurprisingly, it seemed her brother-in-law bore the heavy burden of those wounds as well. Maureen doubted they would ever truly heal.

Frowning, Meg put out a hand. "Peter," she said, and her husband paused. Something passed between them, and Meg's face softened. "Be careful."

He nodded. "I won't be gone long," he said and began to make his way around the room.

* * *

She could feel him. She knew he was standing there, just behind her, hesitating at the last. Oh, yes, out of the very corner of her eye, she had seen him rise – _who could ignore him? his presence commanded the room_ – and her heart almost doubled in its pounding rhythm as he crossed the club floor to her table. 

She cursed herself for being so nervous and so discomfited. This was ridiculous. A woman shouldn't be so afraid to address a member of her own family, after all. Really, what had she to fear?

_Everything…_

Fiercely, she told her otherself to shut up. It was bad enough to be here in the first place; must she be subjected to more torment as well?

And then she heard the quick, indrawn breath, the prelude to speech. She could almost see the shoulders going back, the chin going up, an ancient gesture. Was she really so frightening?

"Susan."

In spite of her foreknowledge, she jumped. Forcing a smile no further than her lips, she pivoted slightly in her chair.

"Peter."

He inclined his head, his expression carefully detached. The eyes alert, aware, almost…hopeful?

_The king in waiting. Will you answer?_

She gritted her teeth and hardened her mind against that damned voice. "You are looking well," she said, all too conscious of the inanity of her greeting.

"Thank you," he replied.

"Please, have a seat." She waved a manicured hand towards the empty chair facing her.

"Again, my thanks," he answered and sat down.

Silence lay between them. Impasse.

Their eyes met.

"It's good to see you, Susan," he said softly, leaning forward. Genuine gladness filled his voice, and she winced at the ache in her middle.

"I'm sorry; I came to see Edmund," she responded, and she watched bewildered confusion enter his face.

"Edmund," he repeated, retreating once more to that steady neutrality. The feeler had been rejected. Had he really hoped for more?

"Yes," she said, knowing how odd it sounded. The brittle bitterness between her and Edmund had only hardened over time. Why would she deliberately seek him out?

He nodded, patient as usual, regardless of her low meanness. He would always be waiting thus, she supposed.

For her.

Her breath caught in her throat. The ache sharpened.

_Is it really too late? Oh, God, help me…_

And then, unbelievably and without notice, she slipped. "It's happening again, Peter."

A heartbeat. Two.

Perhaps it was the naked desperation in her tone. She had never been good at concealing her feelings. Not with them.

His gaze widened with sudden understanding, and relief nearly overwhelmed her.

"The same dreams?"

"Yes."

He leaned back in his chair, but she could see electric shock limning every line. His eyes, burning brilliance, bored into hers, and she met them bravely.

_No longer alone…_

"Come with me," he said abruptly, standing and almost holding out his hand to her. "We'll see what we can do."


	5. Cassandra's Tears

_Christian: And how did you do then?  
Hopeful: I thought I must endeavour to mend my life, for else thought I, I am sure to be damned.  
+ The Pilgrim's Progress_ by John Bunyan**  
**

**4. Cassandra's Tears  
**

Edmund watched as Peter seated himself across from their sister, and they exchanged pleasantries, as distantly reserved and formal as two strangers being introduced for the very first time. He was very conscious of Maureen next to him, her fingers still gently pressing his arm, and he took the steady comfort she offered, using it to salve the fiercely burning ache beneath his breastbone. All around them the ebb and flow and hustle-bustle of the club continued unabated, although Edmund felt as though his vision had narrowed into a grey tunnel, at the end of which was the little table opposite them.

Then Susan suddenly made a hasty comment, and the world went sideways. Peter stiffened in response, almost imperceptibly, and immediately appeared to relax back in his chair as though nothing had happened. To Edmund, however, who knew his brother's body language like the back of his hand, the tiny movement screamed alarm, shock, unbelief, and he could still see it tensing Peter's carriage. "Lion's Mane," he swore under his breath, hardly realizing what he had said until his wife's hand tightened, pinching through the serviceable black broadcloth of his tuxedo jacket.

Amazement ran through him as Susan actually stood at Peter's invitation, and he sensed Maureen take a deep breath as the two of them began to head back across the room. In spite of the rapidly tightening knot in the pit of his stomach, Edmund forced himself to remember that his wife had always been slightly nervous of Susan – intimidated more by the strong emotions she carried with her and caused around her rather than by her beauty or higher social standing – and he must be conscious of it. He must not let slip his temper. _God help me, _he thought, closing his eyes briefly.

His older brother had offered their sister his arm, and she had taken it, very cautiously. As they walked together, eyes began to follow them and heads began to turn as various club patrons noticed their passage. A sudden flickering vision overtook Edmund, and for a moment he was lost in it – _Peter, clothed in deepest red and flashing mail, golden crown gleaming, tall and regal and commanding; Susan in moon-spangled silver, with her black hair falling long and heavy to her feet and bound back from her face with flower_s– He shook his head almost savagely and the images dissipated. What a fool he was; that had been long ago, another lifetime.

The knot of nerves in his middle twisted, hard, and Edmund ruthlessly pushed it from his mind. He was completely conscious of the irony in his reaction – he could play before crowds of people, even the Queen, and not feel a thing aside from the joy of the music and the thrill of performing. Yet when confronted with his estranged sister, he experienced the same nauseating sickness that had plagued him before any kind of threatening situation – duels, battles, challenges, quests, and the like. He supposed it was appropriate to the situation now but heartily disliked it all the same.

Maureen's hold had constricted rather painfully by this time, and he patted her hand again before disengaging and standing as Peter and Susan approached their table. Susan could do what she liked; he, at least, would not be disrespectful.

"Hello, Susan," he said, nodding at her, and she stepped forward to touch his arm and brush an air kiss against his cheek. He inhaled her expensive perfume and fought back a cough, but nevertheless returned the gesture.

"Edmund," she responded coolly and then properly inclined her head to her sisters-in-law, who were watching her warily. Maureen, her face pale and stiff, at least made an attempt at a smile, but Meg merely tightened her lips and looked back at Susan with barely disguised contempt.

Peter shot his wife a warning glance as he held out his chair for his sister, and Meg raised her eyebrows slightly in response, but her face did relax somewhat – into a pleasant facade crackling with insincerity. Edmund almost snickered. Undeniably, Meg occasionally tried his patience, but there were other times he greatly admired his brother's taste and good sense in choosing her, and this was one of them.

After the two men had seated themselves, a thin silence stretched across the table, and no one met anyone else's gaze. Susan was clearly uncomfortable and had clenched her hands together into a fist again; Maureen sidled her chair just a bit closer to Edmund's, who was staring fixedly at the empty bandstand, and Meg fussed rather unnecessarily with her gin and tonic. Peter sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped beneath his chin, glancing now and then at Susan as if waiting for her to begin.

Finally, his patience having reached its end, he shifted and looked over at his brother. "Susan needed to speak with you, Ed," he said, breaking through the tension bluntly. "It seems…"

"Must they be here?" Susan interrupted, jerking her head towards the other two women, and Edmund felt the burning ache in his chest sharpen and ignite. "I'd rather speak privately, you understand."

"You would, would you?" Meg began angrily, leaning forward with a rustle of crinoline, "Well, let me tell you, I don't…"

With a convulsive flick of his finger, Edmund cut off his sister-in-law in turn and then regarded Susan with narrowed eyes, fighting fiercely to keep his voice level. "Whatever you have to say can be said, Susan," he said tautly, "Your position here is precarious enough – don't endanger it further."

Maureen stirred. "It's all right," she said, and her husband heard the tremor deep within her tone. "I'd rather there not be any trouble on my account."

Edmund turned to look at her directly, seriously. "No, Mo," he replied, taking her hand within his and pressing it. "There won't be trouble, and you aren't to leave."

"No, you aren't," Peter added. "Susan, they know. You don't really think we'd have married and kept our wives ignorant of who we've been, do you? You may speak freely, and we will listen." This last was aimed quite pointedly in Meg's direction, and she bristled a bit before taking the hint and settling back in her chair.

Susan glanced from one brother to the other, and Edmund wondered if she'd also caught the High King surfacing in Peter's voice with that last command. She swallowed heavily and opened her mouth to speak, when the waiter who'd attended her earlier obsequiously 'hem-hem'd' from behind and then presented her with the glass of wine she'd ordered.

Edmund blew out a soft breath of exasperation as Susan took the opportunity to dawdle a bit further, taking a sip and fiddling with her napkin. "Susan…" he said, and she looked up, meeting his eyes fully for the first time that evening. He sat up a little straighter almost unconsciously, his throat tightening at the intense despair and fear clouding and darkening their rich color. "Susan…" he whispered again, reaching out to touch her hand where it gripped the tablecloth.

Her lips trembled and her carefully managed expression crumbled for a few precarious seconds, but she took a deep breath and regained control. "Edmund, it's been happening again," she said, so softly he had to strain to catch her words through the chattering and laughing voices all around them. "I've been dreaming again – nearly every night now – the same things, the same awful, hideous things as before…before…" She faltered once more and buried her face in her hands, while Peter touched her slim shoulder comfortingly, albeit somewhat tentatively.

The dim lighting in the club swam in Edmund's vision, and by the sudden chill that swept through him, he knew his face must have drained of all color. Maureen made a small noise of alarm, and she moved closer, a solid, steady presence against his side. "What?" he ground out at last, hoarsely.

Susan raised her head, and her mascara was smudged. Her body convulsed as though she were choking back a sob. "Edmund, please, you remember, you _must_ – the dreams…the _visions_, Edmund."

"What visions?" asked Meg sharply, and after a short silence, Peter inhaled slowly. Edmund was still too dumbstruck to answer.

"It was near the end of our time in Narnia," he said, and Susan flinched as though she'd been threatened with physical violence. "You might recall my telling you of my encounter with the Morrigan there, the island of Murano?"

Meg nodded, and her husband continued. "Susan was given premonitions of what would happen if I either accepted or defied the goddess's request for my loyalty. They were…not pleasant." He smiled wryly.

Edmund finally found his voice. "Pete, you have a definite gift for understatement," he said, though his usual dry sarcasm tasted dusty and bitter in his mouth. He looked over at Meg. "They were terrifying in the extreme."

His sister-in-law pursed her lips. "Really?" she questioned. "And why is that?"

Again there was a pause as Peter, Edmund, and Susan looked everywhere but at each other. "I only see his punishment now," Susan replied at last, hushed, haunted. She stared down at her hands, focusing on nothing. "I see him tied to a rock with his own entrails, upright to the last. The dead are strewn about him. There is a crow on his shoulder, weeping for him."

Maureen gasped and brought her hand to her mouth, her brown eyes widening, and Meg leaned back slowly, her mouth a set in a grim line, a muscle twitching in her jaw. Edmund found himself going rigid with horror at the memories Susan's words evoked, and he met his brother's gaze. Peter looked far calmer than he really had any right to be, although there was something odd in the set of his shoulders, and his expression was tight with the shadow of an old agony.

"But that's not all," Susan continued, and she glanced back up at Edmund, who braced himself against the dread in her face. "Beware, Edmund. I see you alone and weeping, bereft, for your soul has been rent asunder and your heart broken in twain."

And just as before, when they'd been aboard the _Atropos_ and balancing against the movement of the ocean, he knew she spoke the truth. His breath caught and hitched, and he nodded. Maureen pressed her forehead into his shoulder and her hand tightened on his, and he knew she was wondering – could it be the children? Or was he grieving for _her_? _No, oh, no, no Aslan, please…_

"I wanted to tell you," his sister said, "I _needed_ to tell you – I have had no rest, no peace. Maybe now these dreams will stop – maybe now I'll have my nights back, now that I've done my duty and given you fair warning." Her voice was bleak, but it carried an undercurrent of weary hopefulness.

"Warning of what?" Peter asked, although Edmund thought he knew very well what their sister meant. Something was in the wind – something was coming for them, and it didn't look good at all.

"Of death," Susan responded hollowly, the black mascara smudges around her eyes looking like vivid bruises against her pale skin. "Of the end. Of the beginning."

And just as before, with an eerie rush that left Edmund breathless, the world slipped sideways.


	6. London Bridge is Falling Down

**AN:** Many thanks to the incredibly talented elecktrum for the patient, helpful beta-ing of this chappie!

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**5. London Bridge is Falling Down**

As soon as they stepped from the back entrance of the Romper Room, Meg sensed the change in the atmosphere. She couldn't exactly put her finger on what the difference was or from whence it came, but something made her pull her velvet wrap a bit tighter around her shoulders. Peter came out behind her, Susan on his arm, and Edmund and Maureen followed, the former carrying as many instrument cases as he had hands, plus one; the latter holding his satchel of music.

The air was chilly, carrying with it the promise of a dreary fall, cold rain, and grey skies, and it had the dry, crisp taste of very early morning. Meg shivered. She wanted nothing more now than to get home as soon as possible, look in on her sleeping children just to reassure herself, and then fall into bed. A good night's rest – what was left of it, anyway – beside her husband would be just the thing to ease the creeping dread now constricting her heart; oh, she could hope, couldn't she?

Susan's troubled countenance came unbidden to the forefront of her memory, and Meg felt an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy for her sister-in-law. How horrible must it be to see one's brothers – the only family left – in torment, dying in agony, suffering unbelievably, and to dream of it over and over, every night? _It's all she deserves_, _really_, Meg's ugly, uncharitable side whispered snidely, reasserting itself. She clamped down on it ruthlessly, for she had a feeling, though she wished it wasn't quite so certain, that Susan's news had irrevocably shifted the dynamic between all of them.

Meg's high-heels cracked against the paved sidewalk with bulleted precision, echoed in the steps of both Susan and Maureen, along with the slightly heavier, duller tread of Peter and Edmund, the rustle of fabric, the occasional thick clack of Edmund's instrument cases against one another. No one spoke, but she would have been willing to bet they were all thinking of the same thing.

A warning – _of death, of the end, of the beginning…_

To be quite honest, she wasn't entirely sure what she thought of the whole business just yet, although she would admit Susan's revelations were rather disturbing. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Peter and Edmund had been profoundly affected; her brother-in-law's face had taken on such a ghastly, waxy pallor, Meg had been afraid he would collapse in a faint without much further notice. Maureen had given him her wine glass and insisted he take a sip or two, and his color had gradually returned. Still, when he stood to return to the bandstand at the end of the break, he had swayed rather alarmingly before taking the back of the chair in a white-knuckled grip and steadying himself.

The rest of the night had gone without incident, although a decided lack of conversation and the general tension amongst the four of them remaining at the table marred any enjoyment of the admittedly excellent music. Peter and Meg had meant to stay until Edmund was through and then perhaps go get a bite to eat with him and Maureen, for they had paid Laura to stay late with the children. It was evident now that no one felt much like following the original plan.

"Peter, really, I'll be fine. I'll find a cab; it's not like I don't have the means to pay for it," Susan's low murmur broke into her thoughts, and Meg hesitated long enough for them to catch up with her, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

"I know," Peter replied, "but we'd rather see you home ourselves. It's no trouble."

Meg rolled her eyes slightly, wanting to tell her husband to speak for himself, but not quite wanting to draw attention to her earlier rudeness in the club, either. If Peter wasn't so distracted, she knew a mild lecture on charitable behavior most certainly would have been delivered somewhere between the Romper Room car garage and their bedroom. It still might, if she gave him cause to remember, so she resolutely held her tongue.

Edmund and Maureen came up beside them, and the young man gave Meg a covert glance, as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. "Come on, Su," he said carelessly, as he led the way over to his battered little car, "You know how Pete is when he gets an idea stuck in his head. Might as well give in and get in – you shouldn't really be allowed to go off on your own at this time of night, anyway. With your luck, you'd fall into a rabbit hole and be sucked into Neverland."

"I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Ed," Susan shot back, a fierceness burning in her expression that Meg had never seen before.

Her vehemence must have struck her brother oddly, too, for he paused in the act of unlocking the boot and half turned to look back at her. He had dropped all pretense, and bitterness narrowed his features into those of a much older man. "Now really, Susan, why would I do that?" he asked softly, menacingly, and his sister reared back, her face going white to the lips as she struggled with her desire to inflict damage in return. She was trembling.

"Enough!" Peter said, the command striking with the speed of lighting and the impact of thunder, and Meg knew he was furious. "I have had quite enough of this ridiculous, childish nonsense!" he continued, and everyone froze at the bare anger exposed in his voice. "We no longer have time for such _indulgent_ displays – the two of you need to fix whatever has broken between you. I mean it, Edmund, Susan. I don't know what these visions herald, but I _do_ know that a house divided against itself _will -_ _not -_ _stand_."

Silence fell, and then was broken again by several of Edmund's band mates coming out of the club and making their way towards the garage, talking and laughing.

Without saying a word, Edmund turned back to his car and finished unlocking it, swinging the lid up and open and depositing his trumpet cases inside. He took the satchel of music from his wife and threw that down as well before shutting the boot with a crash. Maureen put a hand on his arm worriedly, but he shrugged it away without even acknowledging her and then faced Susan again.

"I apologize, Su," he said tersely, and she nodded at him, her nostrils still flared and her cheeks still flushed.

She glanced up at Peter. "I'll go with you," she said, and he nodded in turn.

Pulling his keys from his coat pocket, he handed them to Meg. "Go ahead," he said, "I'll be along."

The last person Meg wanted to be alone with now was Susan, but she knew better at that point than to say anything. Peter was in a dangerous mood, and he was absolutely not to be trifled with on those rare occasions where his temper got the better of his iron self-control. She made a small gesture to her sister-in-law, and as they started away, Susan stepped close to her younger brother.

"Do you know how difficult it was to come to you with this?" she asked, piercing him with a look, rooting him to the spot, and then they were off across the lot towards the spot where Peter had parked earlier that evening – was it a lifetime ago? It seemed so.

Meg unlocked the front passenger side and shooed Susan inside, and it was perhaps a mark of how exhausted they both were with the whole situation that Susan made no token protest at being given the front seat. She slid inside and closed the door and immediately buried her head in her hands, clutching at her short, fashionably bobbed hair.

_I thought things like this only happened in badly written penny dreadfuls_, Meg thought to herself as she moved to unlock the back door. She turned to see her husband and Edmund standing face to face – Peter seemed to be saying something, and her brother-in-law replied, the line of his broad shoulders as straight as an arrow. Maureen was standing beside the car, nervously hugging herself against the cold, and Meg managed to catch her eye to wave a good-bye. The younger woman lifted a limp hand and fluttered her fingers briefly, and then Peter and Edmund were clasping arms and leaning into a stiff hug, and Peter was giving Maureen a light kiss on the cheek as he passed by her.

It was time to leave. _Thank God._

****

Maureen had opened the car door and plopped down on the seat almost before Peter had finished bidding her farewell – she had no desire to linger. Edmund got in beside her, and, after jabbing the key in the ignition, remained for a moment with his long fingers braced against his forehead.

"Don't drive if you're upset," Maureen said softly, in her best non-confrontational voice, and she met her husband's dark, piercing gaze calmly – although she felt anything but – before he relented and looked away.

"I know, Mo," he said, starting the car and then reversing out of the spot, giving a jaunty wave to bass trombonist Geoffrey Marks as they passed him in the lot. "I'll be all right."

"Will you?" she murmured, and he sighed exasperatedly.

"Could we leave this off until we get home?" he asked, and Maureen looked down at her hands, the memory of him rebuffing her earlier comfort stinging afresh. She wanted to be punishingly cross with him, and for a while, she managed it, as his thoughtlessness had both embarrassed and hurt.

Letting her pointed silence serve as an answer, Maureen slumped wearily against the seat's headrest. She watched unseeing as the streetlights and passing automobile headlamps blurred together hypnotically into a glaze of fuzzy red and orange and white light. The monotonous chug-a-chug of the engine was almost soothing, and her husband was generally a good, steady driver, taking the corners and curves with a smooth, expert application of the brake and turn of the wheel.

Thus it was, in spite of herself, she was nearly asleep when she saw – or she thought she saw – the oddest thing draw up beside them. It was one of those horrible, noisy motorcycles and astride it, clad entirely in black leathers, was a woman. She wore a proper helmet and goggles, but long hair the color of midnight flowed over her shoulders, and her seat on the machine gave evidence she was impossibly tall.

Maureen blinked and almost roused herself enough to say something to Edmund, when the woman turned her head and looked straight into the other's startled eyes. Smiling, she raised one gloved finger to dark red lips in the universal gesture of silence, and then she gunned the motorcycle engine and pulled on ahead. Maureen blinked again vaguely. How strange. How exceedingly odd. She must be dreaming – there could be no other explanation. Proper ladies just didn't go around riding motorcycles at this time of night. Ridiculous.

Chuckling to herself at the silliness of her imagination, she snuggled back into the seat. She was dozing deeply once more by the time Edmund drew up to the curb in front of their flat and shut off the car.

Momentarily, the only sound was the clockwork 'tick-tick-tick-tick' of heated metal cooling rapidly, and then Edmund made a restless movement and got out. He came around to Maureen's side and opened the door. "Come on, sleepy-head," he said, as he gently drew her up to standing and slipped his arms beneath hers and entwined them around her waist. Maureen leaned heavily against him, nestling into his warmth and enjoying it so much she nearly missed his next words.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, meeting her eyes squarely, and she blinked at him owlishly, trying to force her brain into action, to comprehend that her husband was apologizing.

"Whuh?" she asked and then shook her head as Edmund chuckled tiredly.

He kissed both her eyelids and her forehead. "I'm sorry. I was beastly to you, and I was wrong. Will you forgive me my foolishness?"

Maureen had finally gathered her wits, and she allowed a faint smile to settle on her lips. "I forgive you," she said slyly, "But could we leave this off until we get inside?"

Edmund gave a muted groan and rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I was a ruddy idiot," he said, "Thank you for making sure I'm well aware of that fact."

"Was an idiot?" she persisted, unable to stop herself, following him around to the boot, helping gather his instrument cases, and then heading up the stairs to their flat.

"You had better watch yourself, missy," he said mildly, taking the steps two at a time, "Or I'll have to get back at you somehow. Your mum isn't bringing the children back until tomorrow, remember."

She giggled thickly, knowing her husband's revenge consisted mostly of unmerciful tickling and then other much nicer things, and trailed along behind more slowly, the cornet case banging against her legs. She was nearly to the top when she heard Edmund set his two cases down with a thud.

"Well, now," she heard him say, though nearly inaudibly, "Isn't this interesting."

She reached the porch just in time to see him straighten up in front of the door, holding a round, silver coffer that was tied with a poison green bow.

He looked back at her, and all her drowsiness vanished at the expression on his face. "What is it, Ed?" she queried, coming quickly forward.

"I don't know exactly," he replied, but there was a queer tone in his voice, and suddenly, she didn't believe him. He almost sounded ill, and sickly splotches of color painted his cheeks – a sure sign of high emotion. "But if I were asked to make an educated guess, I'd say this contained the one sweet for which, in my youth, I very nearly committed murder by proxy."

Maureen felt her mouth go dry. "Turkish Delight," she whispered.

"Yes," he responded, turning the coffer over in his hand and staring at the delicate filigree tracing the sides and lid. "Turkish Delight."


	7. What Goes Around, Comes Around

**AN: **This one is for you, e. (winks)

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**6. What Goes Around, Comes Around**

"_Come on, Peter, breathe."_

… _(smoke, fire, blood) … _

"_Relax, love; it gets easier if you relax. You know this."_

… _(the burning taste of her lips, ah, so sweet) … _

_"That's it, that's it."_

… _(what have you done, my champion?) … _

_ "You'll be all right. There, see? Better already." _

… (what_ have you _done_?) …_

The pain in his fingers alerted him first. His eyes cleared, focused, and he looked down to see he was nearly throttling the life from the clipboard he held. His knuckles were white with the strain. Slowly he loosened his hold, gingerly shaking the tension from his hands.

He was unsurprised to find the action did nothing to ease the steady pressure constricting his chest. Every breath was a small, yet vital, victory.

"Mr. Pevensie?"

Peter jumped a bit, startled, and turned to see the archive receptionist peering in from the reading room, anxiety written on her round face.

"I'm sorry, Lillian," he said apologetically, and she shook her head, waving him off.

"It's quite all right, sir," she replied, sympathy coming alongside the concern and softening her expression. "Little ones keep you up?"

A weak smile crossed Peter's face, but he said nothing. Let the poor woman think what she would; crippling dreams of goddesses and giants and ancient injuries were most likely outside her realm of experience. To be brutally honest, there were times he wished such things were outside his.

"Yes, well," Lillian said, seeing that she had broached what probably should be left a private matter, "I simply wanted to inquire if you were having difficulty locating Dr. Raye's request."

Chagrined, Peter pulled his reading glasses down from his forehead and glanced back at the clipboard and the call slip for shelf 6, box 10. How long had he been standing there, caught up in the agony of his nightmare? Too long, apparently. Lillian never came to fetch him unless the natives were growing restless.

"No, no difficulty," he replied, "It won't be but a moment longer."

She nodded, rolled her eyes in the direction of the reading room, mouthed "most insistent," and backed away, closing the door gently behind her.

Finding the proper box and sliding it from its resting place did indeed take less than no time at all, and when Peter re-entered the reading room bearing it before him, Lillian gave him a grateful look before retreating to her desk.

"My apologies," he said, coming to the researcher's small table and placing the box down. He tucked the clipboard beneath his arm and pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from his front shirt pocket.

"Yes, well, rather," said Dr. Raye with an extremely injured air. "Do you realize how valuable my time is, young man? You have just wasted the past half hour – or nearly so, at any rate – and now I shall be late taking lunch."

Peter gritted his teeth and fought with the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose in aggravation. "Again, my apologies," he responded calmly. "Here are the manuscripts you requested – you'll find them arranged in as much of a chronological order as was possible."

"Hmph," the researcher snorted, apparently unsatisfied with the lack of obsequious servility in Peter's tone. "I hardly think that will make up for me most _certainly_ losing my table."

"And lastly, we ask you wear these while you handle the documents," the younger man continued, proceeding as though he had not heard and presenting Dr. Raye with the gloves.

Just as he had expected, he was met with an even more outraged expression. "My hands are clean, I assure you!"

Peter forced a smile. "I have no doubt, sir," he said, "but the documents are not, and therefore we must protect your health and wellbeing by asking that you acquiesce to this simple request."

Completely missing the thick layer of underlying sarcasm, the older man huffed and puffed for a few moments, then finally snatched the gloves from Peter's hands and jammed his fingers into them. "Thank you, sir," Peter said, trying to control his rising urge to hit something, or preferably, some_one_. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You can leave me in peace," Dr. Raye replied haughtily, removing the lid from the box. He took up his pencil – thank goodness for small mercies, he wasn't using an ink pen – and completely buried himself in his work, ignoring the younger man as thoroughly as if he didn't exist.

"Very well," Peter gave a sharp nod just for the record. "Please let Mrs. Campbell know when you are finished with the manuscripts." He then turned on his heel and headed swiftly for his office – to sanctuary. He desperately needed to sit for a moment, to gather himself. It was growing harder and harder to breathe.

Lillian gave him a sympathetic eye roll as he passed her desk, and he smiled at her as he passed her the clipboard, sharing their mutual annoyance with the irascible old curmudgeon. He slipped inside the small office allotted him and took a deep breath, massaging his chest with an irritated grimace.

"Why now?" he muttered, rounding the desk and slumping down into the chair. Pushing the glasses up onto his forehead again, he scrubbed his hands over his face wearily, wishing he could abdicate responsibility and lock his door against the world. Sweet Lion, he was tired.

Peter wasn't sure why he felt so rotten – he'd been short of sleep and breath many times before, and he'd always been able to muster fortitude to bear such trials with small complaint. Now that fortitude seemed to be in short supply.

He dropped his hands into his lap as his gaze fell upon the broadsword hanging above the doorway – a Christmas gift from his brother and sisters the year after he'd been told he could never return to Narnia. "Why now, indeed?" he said again, more thoughtfully this time, and cocked his head.

Their experience with Susan last night had been draining, to say the least, and he was not encouraged to hear she had begun dreaming again. But in spite of the constant prickling of foreboding up and down his spine, he found himself hoping that the nightmares would be the catalyst to bring Susan back to them. He missed her, and seeing her only served to remind him painfully of the closeness they'd all lost.

"Daydreaming, Pete?"

The voice was unmistakably Edmund's, and his brother stepped into view around the doorjamb, hands shoved in his coat pockets and a small white package tucked in the crook of one arm.

"Ed? What are you doing here?" Peter asked in surprise, automatically glancing at the clock but not really registering the time. "Don't you usually have rehearsal?"

Edmund smiled and tossed his hat neatly onto the coat stand beside the door, before coming to stand before Peter's desk. He took the package from beneath his arm and tossed it down, and due to the soft cloth covering, it made a dull 'clunk'. "Not for another two hours," he said, "and I thought you should see this."

Peter crooked an eyebrow at his brother, who returned his gaze silently, his face a mask, his eyes inscrutable. And yet something in the set of his shoulders and the slant of his mouth gave him away, and it was with some trepidation that the older man reached out and took up the small bundle. He carefully peeled back the layers of dish towel until the object beneath was revealed – the sparkle of delicate silver filigree, the vivid poison of the green bow.

"My, what's the occasion?" he said, looking back up at Edmund, who smiled again, without humor this time. "A little ornate for you, don't you think?"

"It certainly wouldn't be my first choice," the younger man responded, "but it was selected for me – now as then. Someone left this at our flat last night – it was on the doorstep when we arrived home. I opened it but didn't touch it, let alone take a bite. It's the real thing, without a doubt."

Forcing out a breath, Peter gave the coffer a closer look, and then it hit him with the force of a centaur's kick. "Great Scott," he ground out, his voice strained. "Are you joking?"

"I wish," Edmund said, going over to look out the window, his hands still deep in his pockets. "But it would be a pretty poor one and in very bad taste."

"How could anyone _know_ about this, though?" Peter asked, feeling those constant prickles turn into genuine stabs of apprehension and not a little confusion. "How on earth could anyone _know_?"

The younger man turned, and Peter saw the imperturbable mask had given way to a very real worry. "Aye, there's the rub," he replied, "as the only people who do know are either married to us, estranged from us, or dead."

"And we were all together at the club last night," Peter pointed out. "Besides, not even Susan would stoop to leaving you Turkish Delight."

"No, it wasn't Susan." Edmund hesitated, and suddenly Peter knew the worst was yet to come. "Mo saw something last night on our way home. A woman riding a motorcycle – an incredibly tall, black-haired woman. Apparently she came up beside us and looked right at Mo, on purpose. Shushed her. Mo thought she was dreaming, and I didn't notice a thing."

Peter swallowed, trying to breathe without being obvious. His chest felt as though it was bound with obscenely tight iron bands. "You don't think…" he ventured, wondering how he was going to put the obvious suggestion into words. "I don't know how… Not the _Witch_?" His voice dropped, and Edmund went very still. His eyes were deep and haunted.

"I don't know how it could be, or even if it were possible, why it would be, now, after so long." He looked back out the window again. "But I won't lie to you – it makes me very uneasy. Even if she isn't Jadis, the woman Mo saw seems to be the likeliest candidate for leaving this gift. And who is she, and what is she doing here?" He made a sour face. "I would almost rather face an enemy I know than an enigma."

There were several moments of silence, and then Edmund spoke once more, quietly. "But you know all about old enemies, don't you, Pete?" He pinned his brother with a piercing look. "Been paid a visit, have we?"

So Edmund had picked up on his struggle without him having to say a word. No surprise there. "It's only the nightmare, Eddie. Last night – this morning, rather. Early."

"Yet you suffer still."

The older man waved his hand in dismissal. "It will pass, believe me." He managed a smile at his brother's delicately lifted eyebrow. "You know, it's amazing how much skepticism you can pack into that small gesture."

"You just don't do subtle, do you?" Edmund answered, a real smile of his own coming into view. "Very well, if you insist – change of subject. What do you think? This," he motioned to the coffer, sitting innocently on the blotter amidst the towel, "the mysterious Jadis doppelganger, you having an attack, _Susan_. Dreaming. All this, all at once. It can't be a coincidence. Why now?"

"That was my question," Peter said, glancing once again to the sword above the doorway. "Why now. It's been ages – probably quite literally_ages_ there. And Aslan never used circumstances here in this world to let us know something was up, aside from the Narnian appearing to us before the crash. We just went when we were needed. Whistled up like the jinn, remember? Worse than living at the mercy of the telephone."

Edmund frowned. "It might not be something connected to Narnia, necessarily," he said slowly, and Peter could see the wheels turning in his head, the focus in his eyes fixed inward. "After all, we can't go back." He looked back at his brother. "Maybe it's something we're supposed to do here? Some evil we're supposed to vanquish here? After all, there's plenty to go around, and Aslan is in this world…"

Peter nodded. "You speak truth. And if there is one thing I have learned, it's that he will give us direction when it's needed." He paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is even now at the door."

"Lifting the latch," Edmund returned, and then he added with a grin, "Let's just hope this time no one gets turned into an ass."


	8. The Best Laid Plans

**AN:** The flashback references the as yet unwritten story of Peter and Meg's courtship, _St. George's Day_, but serves here to explain Susan and Edmund's severe falling out.  
Edmund's title "the Shield of Narnia" belongs to the incredible elecktrum.

* * *

**7. The Best Laid Plans…**

_"…you see, my husband and I are very concerned – my brother seems to have had some sort of mental break. He's not himself – hasn't been for some time, actually. This latest trauma has served only to exasperate his condition. It really worries me, and I'd like to request that you or someone equally qualified on your staff meet with him."_

_The doctor nodded sagely, his thick glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose a bit with the motion, and licked his lips slightly before replying. "An evaluation is certainly in order, then," he said, "I believe we could schedule an appointment with him before he leaves the hospital. Some paperwork is required, of course, but it shouldn't be a problem."_

_Susan sighed in relief. "You have my most sincere thanks, Dr. Bushey," she said gratefully, "And if I could request you keep this between the two of us? My other brother would not approve; in fact, he might be most difficult. I'd rather avoid a scene, if I might."_

_Dr. Bushey nodded again, a tiny, contemptuous smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I appreciate your situation completely," he replied. "There are some who do not…_understand_ necessary interventions."_

The diamond stud earring fell with a percussive clatter upon the mirrored jewelry tray, and Susan jerked back in surprise, regaining her sense of the present in a dizzying instant. Shaken, her gaze traveled to the various bits and bobs scattered helter-skelter across the shining surface, and she stared at them unseeing before she finally moved to recover the earring. Her fingers were trembling so, she could hardly grasp the two carats worth of diamond and dropped the bauble twice more before finally managing to insert the post into her earlobe.

"_There are some who do not…_understand_…"_

Susan snorted quietly and tried to put in the other earring, fumbling a bit. _That_ had been the understatement of the century. Edmund, once he had discovered her plans, had been anything but sympathetic. Though in hard-earned retrospect, she should have known she could never have hoped to keep him in the dark for long. Not where Peter was concerned. When it came to the welfare of the High King, Edmund was worse than a mother wolf, perpetually on the scent of trouble and constantly _en garde_. But then again, she must bear in mind she had forgotten that particular fact at the time, and quite on purpose, too.

_"Ah, there you are! … Susan? What are you doing down here? Peter's room is upstairs; this is psychiatrics–"_

A sorrowful smile crossed Susan's lips. It hadn't taken Edmund long to put the pieces together, not once he'd seen her there, speaking with the portly doctor who evaluated and tended the delusional and the insane. His face had drained of all color, and just as swiftly, two splotches of livid, feverish crimson had flushed his cheeks, luridly staining his skin high over the cheekbones and draining down towards his jaw. His entire body had gone rigid, and in his eyes for a moment, for a horrible, brief instant before the terrible black rage had risen and subsequently driven an achingly deep chasm between them, Susan had seen her brother's heart break.

Sitting hunched over her vanity, she convulsively clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it to her forehead, ashamed and grieved to remember her response. Quite simply, she had laughed in his face, condescending mirth, a chuckle with an undercurrent of nerves.

"_Why, yes, Eddie, it is."_

She had been certain he would strike her.

Edmund the Just, the Shield of Narnia, protector and defender of his people and knight champion of his favorite sister-queen, had actually raised his hand against her, although at the very last he had exerted enough control over his fury to stay the blow. He had grabbed her upper arms instead, his grip painfully, agonizingly tight, and given her one fierce shake as he started to speak. She had carried the bruises – the marks of his fingers in a dull palette of blacks, blues, greens, and yellows – in her soft flesh for weeks afterwards. Henry had wanted to press charges.

"_Susan, if you try to do anything to Peter; if you try to have him locked away in the loony bin for having an experience you know _very well_ was _real_, I will fight you with every breath I have in me, to the bitter end – to the death, so help me God. I swear it to you, on my body, on my life. Do you understand me? Do you know what that means? Do you want that?"_

The knowledge that her own brother was behind this new and completely terrifying stranger left her speechless and frightened. How could this be the younger sibling she had watched and fussed over, cosseted and challenged and fought with and loved fiercely through two lifetimes? Several long, long moments passed before she mustered the righteous indignation to counter.

"_Eddie, he needs serious help. You saw him, you heard him! How could you _honestly_ believe he was whisked away to some far-off place to fight a dragon? A _dragon_, for heaven's sake! Something is _wrong_ with his _head, _and what's worse, _has_ been for some time!"_

_Edmund's eyes widened with shock, and the sudden anguish vying with anger in his expression almost made her falter._

"_How can you say such things, Su? How could you _do_ something like that to _Peter_? You know perfectly well he's not crazy. He's our brother, Susan. Our brother. How _could_ you?"_

The mere memory of his words and the incredulous, breathless hurt in his voice made Susan bury her face in her hands and curl into herself over the scattered make-up compacts and pieces of jewelry on the tabletop, the ache in her heart deepening. She had been such a fool. She had laughed again, a high-pitched, panicky giggle desperately trying to gain traction.

_"Come now, Eddie, he really shouldn't be allowed to go off on his own even if he is sane – you must see that, even you! Especially after this! Why, he could fall into a rabbit hole and be sucked into Neverland, and then he'd be lost to us forever!"_

_She tutted then, certain she had the high ground in spite of her precarious position and perhaps wanting to twist the knife because of it. "It's actually rather sad. All that promise, gone to complete waste."_

_His grasp constricted even further, if that was possible. Even as Susan uttered a startled, pained exclamation, Edmund bared his teeth at her in what was very like a wolf's snarl, his pain buried once more beneath a flash-flood of near-hatred. "I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, _Susan_," he spat. _

_Susan matched his glare and roughly jerked out of his hold. It took several tries. Fine. If he wanted to play dirty, she'd play dirty. She'd only been trying to help._

"_Now really, _Edmund,_" she hissed, "Why would I do that?"_

"Darling?" Hands touched her shoulders lightly, and Susan jumped, the tears beading in her eyes threatening to betray her and overflow. She must have been deeper in her bad memories than was wise; those horrible dreams and the stress of meeting with her brothers and their wives the evening before had both taken their toll. "I hope you're nearly ready."

She raised her eyes to the mirror and forced what she hoped was not too tremulous a smile at her husband. "Yes, Henry," she said, reaching for the bottle of perfume, "I should only be a minute or two more, really."

He ran his finger along her neck and gently chucked her chin. "No more fretting now, lamb," he said and turned away towards the door. "You've been far too pensive and pale lately; it almost worries me. We have an important guest tonight, though, and I would be most appreciative if you appeared at your best."

Well. This was news. Susan shifted slightly on the velvet cushion, her crinoline and skirts crackling noisily with the movement. "And you couldn't have told me earlier?" she asked disapprovingly, meeting his gaze pointedly in the vanity mirror. Henry raised his eyebrow in the elegant gesture that had at the very first captivated and now only irritated.

"Are you the cook, or the butler, or the maid? Are you responsible for the meals or the table or the rooms?" he asked, and when she tightened her lips and shook her head, he curled up one corner of his mouth in a slightly cruel smirk. "Then did you need to know?"

Susan shook her head again, harsh experience dictating the response of least friction even though she wanted to remark acidly _of course_ she should have known, as who was ultimately responsible for the managing of the cook, butler, and maid except her? She bit her tongue and applied an expert puff of perfume instead. He smiled approvingly. "Good girl. I'll expect you downstairs within ten. Martini alright?" He was gone before she could respond, and she slammed the bottle down upon the table top in frustration before sighing and pushing it back to its place. Sourness twisted her lips as she recognized the irony.

"_I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself…"_

"Now really," she murmured bitterly, repeating the words Edmund had thrown back in her face only last night, "Why would I do that?"

****

Well within the prescribed time limit, Susan finished her toilette and left their bedroom, stepping into the wide, arched hallway and making her way towards the gleaming mahogany staircase. Her high-heels sank into the rich, Turkish carpeting and made no noise as she descended to the first floor, and after a cursory glance at the antique grandfather clock in the foyer, she went not to the half-open door of the sitting room, but instead silently turned the shining glass doorknob set into one half of the double doors to her right and slipped into the dining room.

Mabel, her black and white uniform flawless and starched within an inch of its life, was just putting the finishing touches on the table as Susan entered. "Oh, sorry, mum," she said, jumping a little and nearly dropping the glittering crystal wine glass she was just placing at one of the settings.

Susan made a placating gesture. "No apology necessary, Mabel, dear," she said, "I didn't exactly announce my arrival. But quickly now, who is it that Henry has brought home for dinner, and what are we having?"

The young woman smiled kindly, matronly in spite of the fact her mistress could easily have been her much older sister. "Micah Revelin is his name, mum – from what Rutledge said, he's a senior partner in a firm Mr. Blake would give his right hand to count among his supporters."

Susan nodded – this wasn't unusual at all. Henry regularly entertained such guests – men of greater power and influence than he, men he hoped to gain as associates and use to climb ever higher in his professional circles. It was no secret he would dearly love to be called to the Bar, or even achieve the coveted QC after his name, and so he worked hard at weaving a web of connections and favors and acquaintances to further and ensure achieving that goal.

Knowing what to expect out of the evening put her on steadier footing – achingly dull and inane small talk over cocktails and dinner and then she would be dismissed to her own pursuits while the two men removed to Henry's study to discuss law and politics over glasses of port and cigarettes or cigars. If a wife had been towed along, she would instead be expected to keep her company in the sitting room with a deck of cards – playing whatever game the other wife preferred – until the visit ended. A well-rehearsed script and one she had performed many times. On the plus side, she thought suddenly, perhaps the familiar tedium would prove a good distraction from her other problems.

"Thank you, Mabel," she said, "And for dinner?"

"Yes, mum. Anatole has beef Wellington ready, along with asparagus, rosemary potatoes, and a whipped pineapple gelatin. It smells lovely, mum."

"It sounds lovely, too," Susan replied, "I know both Henry and our guest will enjoy it – as will I. Please convey my satisfaction to Anatole on his impeccable taste in choosing such a meal."

Mabel inclined her head with another smile and went back to her work. "Yes, mum."

Susan backed into the hall and closed the dining room door carefully behind her. She glanced once more at the clock, noting she was still in plenty of time, and crossed the polished parquet floor of the foyer, purposefully letting the punctuation of her heels announce her arrival.

As she entered the sitting room, she was greeted by a wave of smoke – the cigarette variety this time, she noted tartly – and heat. Pursing her lips, Susan made a note to speak with Rutledge, for the room was teetering precariously on the edge of being much too hot.

"Ah, my darling, how good of you to join us," Henry said, coming to meet her and placing a perfunctory kiss against her cheek. "Please, let me introduce to you our guest – Mr. Micah Revelin, Esq. of Revelin & Associates. Micah, may I present my beautiful wife, Susan."

Susan found her hand encased in a soft steel trap and raised for a respectful kiss. She glanced up into mild, light-blue eyes – goodness, the man looked tired – and felt her customary plastic smile settle over her lips in response.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Revelin," she said gracefully.

"The pleasure, my dearest, gentle Susan," he returned smoothly in a sandy tenor, "Is entirely mine."


	9. Some Enchanted Evening

**9. Some Enchanted Evening**

The ocean swam with color, muted auburns and tans and beiges and sage greens and dirty blues, all swirling together in ecstasy, running and blending and melting as though their very essence was akin to paint doused in turpentine. Maureen was standing on a drab spit of land, miles and yet inches above the surface of the water, and the acidic, chemical smell of the brine stung her nose. Somewhere deep, she knew she was dreaming and this place had no substance in the waking world, but every sense prickled to the reality of her state.

Two people stood facing one another a short distance away: a tall, slender woman with glossy, thick black hair, woven with flowers and falling to her feet, and a man of average height and build, slouched slightly and blinking at the woman with sleepy, light blue eyes. A sense of menace emanated from him like the putrid, insidious stench of decay from a rotting corpse, though nothing in his physical make-up or attitude or posture suggested he was anything close to a threat.

"_And your brother the High King?"_ he asked, his voice carrying – but only barely – over the glutinous plopping of the waves. _"Your brother the Just? Tell me, have they had any visitors lately? Anyone to bring them a bit of cheer from their far-away kingdom? From their far-away god?"_ His tone was contemptuous, but an undercurrent of intent interest ran beneath the disdain. _"How do they fare in this cold, cruel world, so far from home?"_

The woman recoiled slightly, her face white as rice paper. _"I know not what you ask,"_ she replied, her voice unwavering, though bleak, in spite of her obvious nerves.

The man smiled as if he knew the answer. "_They have beautiful children,"_ he said_, "and well-matched helpmates. How is it you cannot say the same?" _Each word had the balance and thrust of a poniard, with a keen, cutting edge.

The woman bit her lip, and a drop of purple blood welled up, dully gleaming in the brown light of the sad, old sun. _"I know not what you ask,"_ she repeated, her hands clenching into fists and opening again convulsively. _"I know not what you say."_

The man narrowed his eyes briefly with just a hint of impatience, as if abandoning a particular line of questioning as too slow and unproductive. _"We've been watching,"_ he said mildly, _"And we will see when he finally finds you, for you see, we know he is coming. Your denials mean nothing – and are nothing – to us."_

The woman faltered a bit and then drew herself up, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. _"I know not what you say,"_ she said firmly.

And then the man shifted slightly with the fluidity of a nightmare, straightening, standing a bit taller, his eyes sharpening and hardening into ice, his stance becoming more aggressive, and a small goatee appearing on his chin, a loop of silver imbedding in his ear.

"_Yes, you do,"_ he hissed, and suddenly, from everywhere and nowhere, a horde of squalling grey goblin-like creatures engulfed the woman, grabbing at her skirts, pulling and climbing her luxurious hair, entwining their hideous, long-fingered hands around her arms and legs and throat, squeezing, crushing, lacerating.

All throughout, the woman did nothing and made no resistance. Her countenance was pained, but calm, and she held the man's eyes with steady strength, even as he drew a crackling bronze sword from thin air and ran her through. The same purple blood erupted in a fountain, burning and sizzling where it struck the drab, grayish-brown earth and covering the man in a trickling coating that ran from his arms and face and clothing in thick, viscous streams.

Completely and utterly terrified by this horrible turn of events, Maureen opened her mouth and tried to scream, feeling as though she were moving through sludge, shaking with frustration at her silence, no matter how hard her effort. Yet when the man turned his head and pierced her with the intensity of his gaze, she knew he had heard her and more awful still, he had _seen_ her. He lifted the sword and pointed it at her and then snarled a command in a strange language. The goblin-creatures instantly discarded the woman's body, as one turned their blind eyes in her direction, and began to swarm towards her.

She could have sworn later that her heart actually stopped with fright. She rose against the malleable walls of the dreamscape and began to claw frantically for escape, and just as it seemed she was successful, as the tans and sages and beiges ran together into a blissfully appealing dim awareness, she felt an arm snake around her side and press her body into a soft, yielding surface.

"Eddie?" she asked frantically, hopefully, her question slurred with sleep and her senses dim. There came a hiss in answer, and suddenly with a stab of cold fear, Maureen knew whoever was with her now was not her husband. She jerked, the prelude to violent struggle, when something wet and clammy touched the back of her neck. The arm around her waist tightened and, iron-hard, kept her still while a loud snuffling noise broke the tense silence.

Then a voice spoke - queer, sibiliant grating. "Thees' ss net au zjus ou au nezngr."

"Neh?" said another, and Maureen took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream for help, actually feeling her lungs expand with air and gather force instead of smothering beneath the immobilizing dream-silence. A hand, wide, skeletal-fingered, tasting of dust, clamped over her lips and pinched, stifling her cry. She thrashed, but to no avail. The wet touch came at her neck again, and she realized with a horrid shiver that it was a nose.

"'Es sent ss ff au zjus. Meh net em. Es au zjus pepety."

A grunt. "Neff ten. Kme."

And the hand released her, the weight of the arm disappeared, and with a faint scrabbling sound and what might have been a whisper of window curtains, the mysterious assailants were gone.

Maureen blinked and opened her eyes, realizing she had woken at last. She lay in bed shaking, lifting a trembling hand to her forehead, a low whimper escaping her lips and tears leaking from her eyes. Never before had she even been threatened in such a physical manner, and the terror she felt was quite overwhelming. She felt unsafe and sullied somehow, even though she had not been hurt. What an unspeakable, appalling nightmare! Had it really been only that? She wanted desperately to think so, but something about the end, with the sniffing and the voices, made her uncertain and even more afraid.

After another second or two of bolstering her courage, she swiftly untangled herself from the bedclothes and went immediately to the hallway, noting with great relief that the children's doors seemed untouched. Entering, she quickly checked one small room after the other, noting that the windows were still closed and that their toys and clothes were undisturbed. She stopped for a moment at each of their beds and watched her son and daughter sleep, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. While Moira lay as peaceful and serene as an angel, her rosebud mouth partly open, Ian presented a perfect miniature of his father's preferred sleeping posture, tangled helter-skelter in his blankets with arms and legs akimbo. Tenderly, she bent and brushed a stray lock of sooty hair back from the six-year old's forehead. He grumbled in his sleep and squirmed onto his side, his thumb automatically popping into his mouth.

Maureen smiled tremulously and went cautiously to check the rest of the flat, putting on all the lights she could. She still felt the clinging miasma of the dream hanging over her like a diseased cloud, and every shadow and sound took on shivery, ominous shapes and sinister meanings. Once or twice, she almost thought she saw and heard something move, but found nothing.

When she entered the kitchen, the clock over the sink read ten minutes past two, and she breathed in a heavy sigh of relief as she leaned back against the countertop. Edmund should be home soon, thank God. She wasn't at all sure she could handle being alone much longer.

Just as Maureen made up her mind to fix herself a cup of tea, she finally heard footsteps coming up the outer stairs to their door, a pause and the scrape of shoes on the mat, the rattle of keys, a thud against the door, and finally the scraping screech of the door itself opening as quietly as possible.

There came the small, ordinary sounds of Edmund stepping inside and shutting and locking the door behind him, and then he came down the narrow hallway towards the kitchen, drawn no doubt by the oddity of every lamp at full blaze. He peered around the door jamb at last and jumped slightly in surprise upon seeing her. She made a small noise of relief at seeing his face, though she couldn't help noticing how tired he looked - there were black smudges beneath his eyes and his complexion was waxy and pale. "What are you doing awake, Mo?" he asked.

She went to him without a word in reply and slipped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his neck, smelling pipe and cigarette smoke, sweat, brass, and the faintest trace of bergamot. "Come now," he said, and she felt him bend to set his instrument cases down. "What's wrong, Maureen?" His arms wound about her, strong and supportive, anchoring her, and his hand came up to stroke the back of her neck.

"I had a horrendous nightmare," she said tremulously into his collar, and he turned his head to press a kiss on her ear.

"I'm sorry, love," he said, "Was it really all that bad?"

She nodded and hugged him tighter against her, wondering if she should give voice to her other suspicions. Hang it all, she was probably just being silly.

Edmund seemed to sense her hesitation. "Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked, "Sometimes that helps."

"No, Eddie," she said, biting her lip, "I…I think the end of it wasn't a dream… I think…I think someone broke in." Her voice spiraled a bit into hysterics before she regained control, and immediately Edmund stiffened.

"What?" he asked, his voice changing instantly from a soothing murmur to a low, dangerous threat.

"The children are all right," she said, and she sensed him relax slightly, although tension still thrummed through his body like a high-powered electrical currant. "I checked the whole flat, and I couldn't find anything or that they'd taken anything or done any damage."

"They, plural?" The short question lashed out as fiercely as a whipcrack, though it was spoken in a quiet, even tone. Feeling ridiculously relieved and comforted by her husband's carefully controlled fury, she nodded against his shoulder.

He gave her a gentle squeeze and then disengaged enough to look her in the face. His brown eyes were blazing, and she was abruptly thankful he wasn't angry with her. "Were you hurt?"

Maureen bit her lip, the awful, complete helplessness she'd known earlier crashing back into her with the force of a freight train. "No," she began, tears threatening again, much to her shame. "They didn't...do anything, and like I said, it was probably just the nightmare, I'm fine, but it felt much more _real, _so _real_... I'm fine, just..." Shaking now, she turned her head away and tried to control her berserk emotions.

"Ssssssh, there," Edmund said softly, "You're safe now, Mo. Here..." He maneuvered her to one of the rickety kitchen chairs and eased her down into it, reaching into an inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket for his handkerchief. She took it gratefully and pressed it to her face, embarrassed by the depth of her reaction. How could she be so weak over something so stupid? Desperately, she kept hold of Edmund's arm, wanting to touch him, to know he was there.

Her husband went down on one knee before her and stroked her hair with his free hand. "Take a deep breath, hold it - that's it - now let it out slowly," he instructed, "Good - now, again." He waited as she obeyed and then said once more, "Again. Good." He lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers and met her gaze. "That's my girl," he said, smiling and getting a watery twitch of the lips in response.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and then crumpled the soggy square of linen in her fist. "I feel so foolish," she whispered. "It's really nothing, and here I am, all in pieces."

"It's hardly _nothing_," he responded with a slight edge, "Don't diminish this, Mo – you have every right to be upset. Tell me what happened – tell me everything, from the nightmare to the part where you thought it became real to the end where I came in just now. Can you do that?"

Drawing in one more unsteady breath, Maureen opened her mouth to answer, glancing to the hallway over his shoulder. "I was standing on this terribly ugly bit of land," she said slowly, a frown creasing her forehead as she peered into the dim recesses beyond the circle of kitchen light. Had that shadow moved?

Edmund nodded patiently, waiting for her to continue. "There…there were two people, talking – a man and a woman…and…" She halted short, taken aback. "…and the woman was your sister! I don't know why I didn't recognize it before…how thick-headed of me…but it was she, I know it…"

"You dreamed of Susan?" her husband asked sharply.

Maureen shook her head in assent, her eyes straying once more to the hallway, little prickles of apprehension crawling up and over her skin. "I…I think so. In fact, I'm almost certain. They were–"

Abruptly, she broke off and gripped her husband's arm so tightly that he winced, startled. She hadn't been mistaken. That shadow _had_ moved…_of its own accord._ "Edmund…" she said, low, tense, and then her eyes widened in sudden shock and horror.

"Edmund!" she screamed, just as a hideous, squat little _thing_ came flying down towards them from where it had been clinging to the molding along the hall ceiling, its obscene hands reaching, ugly, misshapen mouth grinning repulsively below a pair of ghastly white eyes.

Edmund must have taken the warning in her expression seriously, as she had barely opened her mouth when he dove at her in a lightning tackle, catching her around the waist and propelling the both of them to the linoleum in a clatter of furniture. He landed atop her, and she felt the extra impact of the creature and the huff of Edmund's breath hot against her neck, and then he rolled away, leaving her wheezing and fighting the stabbing pains in her back from the chair's knobby spindles.

When she finally recovered enough presence of mind, Maureen scrambled up and over the fallen chair in a frantic, reverse crab-walk, watching in unbelieving fright as Edmund grappled with the emaciated fingers locked around his neck. He twisted into himself, before uncoiling with the tensile spring of a steel blade and smashing his elbow behind him, catching the creature in the upper arm and eliciting a gargling, spitting hiss. Another such blow brought forth only the same, and so Edmund twisted again, backpedaling into the refrigerator and crushing the thing against it, slamming it into the buckling metal several times as it burbled menacingly and clung to him like grim death. He must have sensed something shift then, for he reached over his head and latched on to the folds of grey skin at the back of his assailant's neck, his long fingers hooked into claws, the motion so quick Maureen could hardly follow. An explosive '_hah_!' burst from his lips as he yanked with all his might.

The creature ripped free, its weirdly long arms torqued forcibly in a direction they were clearly not meant to go, and it squalled in pained fury. Edmund let the momentum generated by his action swing his right arm down and back, and then he flicked the thing forward almost as if he was playing a particularly vicious game of nine pins, putting the entire weight of his body behind the savage throw. "Mo!" he barked, never taking his eyes off the creature as it crashed into the door jamb with enough force to crack plaster. "Knife!"

Maureen clambered to her feet, panting and nearly sobbing in her haste, and fumbled with the right corner drawer pull, hoping and praying she had the right one. Jerking the sliding compartment open, she exclaimed in relief, seeing the long, lethally sharp bits of cutlery arranged in their neat rows. There came a nasty crunch, and she whirled to see Edmund had followed up his advantage and brutally kicked the creature out into the hallway and against the wall on the other side. "Knife, _now_!" he snapped, holding his hand back to her, palm up, and she swung around, chose the longest and thickest, and plucked it from the drawer.

She had just slapped the handle in his grasp and was about to arm herself with the square cleaver, when a distressed cry went up from the direction of the children's rooms, a frightened, despair-stricken wail. Moira. Edmund froze, and Maureen's breath caught in her throat, and they both watched in dread alarm as the creature picked itself up off the floor, trembling and wobbly, but still quite mobile. It looked down the hall and sniffed, its oversized nostrils quivering, and then turned its disconcerting milky eyes back towards the two of them and _smiled_.

Edmund uttered a harsh, guttural howl and lunged, his movement so fast that the hem and sleeves of Maureen's nightgown and the leaves of the wall calendar fluttered with the wind of his passage. He caught one of the thing's wasted, overlong arms in an unbreakable grip as it tried to dash towards the children's bedrooms and swung the stubby form up and into the bookshelves lining the hallway, the impact sending a shower of books, confettied paint, and splintered wood to the floor.

He let it drop and kicked it again, emitting a steady, threatening growl as he advanced to where it lay in a huddled pile, stunned. Reaching down, Edmund took up the creature by the neck and slammed it against the wall, his fingers constricting, throttling, the butcher knife held ready in his other hand, and a terrible expression on his face. "Mo, see to the children," he ordered, not looking at her, his entire focus bearing down upon the thing in his possession.

Shaking, Maureen scuttled down the hallway, slipping past him into Ian's room and shutting the door behind her. Just as she'd suspected, both of the children were there tucked in beside the dresser, clutching one another in a panicked embrace, their eyes huge with fright.

"Mummy!" Moira shrieked, disentangling from her big brother and flinging herself into Maureen's arms.

Ian came to her just as swiftly, and she pulled her two babies tightly against her body, wrapping her arms around them and squeezing them fiercely. "What's happening, Mumma?" he asked fearfully, burying his nose in her neck.

"A burglar," she replied, moving to sit on the bed and cuddle them to her, not at all certain if what she said was the truth, but equally uncertain as to any other answer. She wasn't sure calling the police was quite appropriate at this juncture. "Daddy's taking care of things," she said with as much confidence she could project, though she knew she was trembling. "We need to stay here – everything will be fine."

Indeed, her husband was handling the situation with a speed and ferocity she had never seen from him before, and the discovery of this heretofore hidden side was, quite simply, as scary as it was comforting. They could hear him in the hallway, spitting questions in a rough, gravelly tone she'd never heard him use, almost bestial in its inflection and diction – was it possible his voice had even deepened a fraction?

"What are you?" _thump_ "Who sent you?" _thump_ "What do you want?" _thump_ No response. "Answer me, dammit!" And then again. "What are you?" _thump_ "Who sent you?" _thump_ "What do you want?" _thump_

Maureen clamped her hands hard over her children's ears, wishing she could do the same for her own. Nausea struck the pit of her stomach as the routine began for the third time and then a fourth, and then awful, meaty snapping noises began to take the place of the thumps. The creature screamed with each blow, a reedy, screeching noise like nails on a chalkboard, but otherwise said nothing, though Maureen wondered if they would have been able to understand it even if it had spoken. The speech of the creatures who had assaulted her earlier had been indecipherable.

There came one last flurry of crackles and then an ominous silence. "Very well," Edmund said, and Maureen shuddered at the flat promise of darkness in those two words. "Try this on for size, you abhominable bastard."

She heard his grunt of effort, the knock of the creature's body up against the thin wood of the wall, a piercing death-wail, and a completely unexpected muffled bang, almost as if a cloth balloon had been punctured. Maureen squeaked in surprise, which caused Ian and Moira to shriek in turn and burrow deeper into her sides. She held them close and waited for several hitching breaths, hearing nothing further.

When Edmund began coughing, she gently, swiftly extricated herself from her children, jumped up, and made to open the door. "No!" he said loudly at the rattle of the glass handle, "Wait! It…it exploded…into this strange dust – no, I don't want you or the children out here until I've cleaned it up."

"But Ed," she began in protest, "Please, let me help you."

"Wait," he said again, "It won't take me long – ooh, ahh – _ow!"_ His sudden exclamation was hoarse and full of pain.

"Eddie!" she exclaimed, turning the knob, all sorts of terrible thoughts leaping into her imagination.

"No!" he said, and by the sudden resistance, she knew he had placed his hand against the door to keep it shut. "I'm fine, Mo, really. It's just–" he paused and actually uttered a dry, amused chuckle. "I haven't done this in a long, long time. I'm going to pay for it in the morning."

"It is morning, Eddie," Maureen reminded him, smiling in spite of herself as well and thanking God her husband had returned when he did.

Edmund chuckled once more, and the floor creaked as he moved down the hallway towards the tiny broom cupboard. "So it is, Mo. So it is."


End file.
